Happy
by beehoon
Summary: A series of one shots of what happens off screen for Cullen and Inquisitor Trevelyan. Chapter 12: Real. How did he know that this was real and not a desire demon's trap?
1. Whiteout

Whiteout

Edit: apologies for the lack of breaks and stuffed up formatting :(

* * *

When the geas finally unravelled, they were all gasping for breath. Dorian leaned against a tree, sucking in great gulps of air until his head swam but he fought back the nausea. He'd sooner kiss Cassandra than throw up in front of her.

Sera managed to ask as her breathing eased, "Was that Coryfisheus?". He shook his head, still too breathless to speak.

It had been such a beautifully crafted geas too: the descent into blind panic delicately balanced by the suggestion that they follow the trail left by the fleeing townsfolk. He never knew that he could run that fast.

"I am going to strangle that...mage brat!" The white lines around Cassandra's mouth that marked the transition from general annoyance to outright rage were being displayed in their full glory.

Dorian managed to straighten up without fainting. "Of course, that's assuming she survives that. It sounded like a sizeable avalanche."

Cassandra stilled at that. Dorian took advantage of the pause to check that his moustache's curls hadn't wilted from the sweat beading on his lip. He was more worried than he cared to admit, but the destruction of magical devices like the Anchor tended to cause massive explosions, and thus her survival thus far seemed probable.

Cassandra sighed. "We should move on. We will not be able to return to Haven through that passage. Let's find Cullen and the others."

Dorian struck a small light on his staff as he hurried to catch up with Cassandra. The sky was dark with heavy clouds; there would be snow in the air tonight.

* * *

He had a feeling that she would have called it a storm in a teacup without a trace of irony. And it was in many ways, assuming Thedas was the teacup in question.

The thought lingered vaguely at the back of his mind as he directed them to set up camp under scant cover of the ridge. More than a few had died along the way, and he wondered if she would find those grim signs of their passage.

Of course, that was assuming she was alive.

Something twisted in his gut, and he thought of the quizzical look on her face just hours before, as she looked out over the festivities. "The Breach is closed," she had said, "but I feel like I'm waiting for the punchline."

His hand went to the vial of lyrium in his pocket. "Maker's breath," he muttered.

It was sometimes hard to tell one pain from another. And perhaps this would just be a different form of withdrawal.

* * *

It was really fucking cold.

Lady Trevelyan, recently of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, still more recently Herald of Andraste, symbol of the Inquisition, bit back another expletive. The Trevelyans were an old family and had the stiff upper lips that decorum demanded. Evelyn, however, moved to the Circle at age six, and was no stranger to near death experiences. She had learned the vocabulary suited to such situations, and hard sharp syllables that meant something rude were merely an efficient method of communication where required; for instance, if an apprentice was about to level the tower with an explosion.

The world was wind and swirling snow. She clutched at her staff and planted it deep with every step, all the while regretting that it was not an igneous staff to warm her fingers. Fingerless gloves to let her trace magic deftly now seemed like a terrible idea, and it had been hours since she could feel her fingers. They had burned with the cold before going numb, and she was not sure she could let go of the staff.

She sighed, and her breath froze into the already icy scarf around her face. The Conclave should have been mainly about yawning subtly and having a nice warm drink while trying to stay awake. She had been persuaded to attend to represent Ostwick with the expectation that they would have no say in what was to come.

Regretting her lack of survival skills in a blizzard was not part of the plan.

White snow and dark sky. She could feel the Fade strongly here, where there was only cold and the rush of wind. Intangible shapes, sounds just past the edge of hearing-

Symbols and concepts were what mattered in the Fade. So they had just seen the Herald die and their homes destroyed. What would their nightmares hold tonight?

She smiled then, bright and grim. Time and place were worthless in the Fade, but she would figure it out. She had to.

She had to survive because of the thrice-damned Anchor in her hand. Nevertheless, if she lost her hand to frostbite, all of this was probably pointless and she should have just curled up in the snow to die. She was given to understand that hypothermia was not a horrible way to go.

It would be a nice Winter's End present for that blighted monster.

She sighed again and trudged on, mildly annoyed yet entertained by the thought, with the Frostback Mountains as the only ones listening to the occasional muttered "Shite!".

* * *

He wasn't even sure at what point they had started shouting. Eventually he lost interest and sank back into his seat.

If he hadn't objected so violently when Leliana had suggested that they obtain her phylactery-

_Do you want her to feel coerced into staying with us? She might take it as a threat. It is not our right to have that power over her._

He would have been able to find her, even in the whiteout. He would have had take lyrium to use the phylactery, but to save her-

It didn't matter. They didn't have it.

It occurred to him that the wind had stopped drowning out the sound of their voices.

"I'm going to look for her." Before the others could object, he slipped out of the tent. They could continue the argument later. Such things kept well in this climate.

* * *

"There she is! Thank the Maker!"

There was so much snow clinging to her that she was barely visible in the darkness, and he ran to her as best he could, sinking into the fresh powder.

Snow crusted her eyelashes, and he peeled away the scarf wrapped around her face, frozen with the dampness from her short rapid breaths. "Cullen," she said as he put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. It was a greeting, a statement of fact, a call answered.

* * *

She waited quietly until he dismissed the messengers. He cleared his throat awkwardly as she came closer.

What did one say in such circumstances? I'm sorry I left you to die in Haven? (even though I was following orders.) I'm glad you're alive ? (There was never a more beautiful sight than you in the snow)

He had tried to get it out the last time they had spoken, and she had tripped over her words too, the usual irreverence falling away as she said "_I'm glad you made it out."_ All he had managed then was a promise that it would never happen again.

She asks for an update and he replies distractedly. She raises an eyebrow until the question trips out, "How did you find us? The blizzard covered our tracks. No one would have found us in that whiteout."

Her lips twitch, an almost smile that she smothers quickly. "What do you think?"

"The Maker must have led you to us."

"I suppose that's approximately true." She grinned. "And if I said it was by magic?"

"Then thank the Maker that you are a mage."

The devilish glint was back in her dark eyes. "That's not something I hear much."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Commander, the armoury report as you said, sir. Now, sir. Yes, sir, that's what you said, sir. Sir."

"I'll speak to you later, Cullen."

"I'll be here, should you require me," he says, and he means it.


	2. Hide and Seek

It should have been impossible to miss her in such a small tavern, but nonetheless he almost did. Most of Haven ate their dinners at those rough tables, himself included, but he had never seen her there before. Everyone else seemed oblivious to the Herald of Andraste sitting on a barrel in the corner, bowl in one hand and spoon in the other, cheeks full of food.

She caught his eye and swallowed quickly, then waved her spoon. He wove through the crowd to greet her, and felt electricity crackle and pop over his skin when he stepped into her little quiet space. He was impressed; he had never seen magic used like that.

"Hello. You should mind the armour; don't leave until I've discharged the spell. The mutton stew is delicious."

"I see. I will do as you suggest; your worship. How are you going unnoticed?"

She shrugged and kept eating. "Magic."

"Then how is it that I can see you and the other templars can't?"

"It's easier to hide from them because they aren't looking for me."

"And I am?" He flushed with the suggestion. He was suddenly all too aware of how close she was. Her damp hair was loose around her face, sweet with the scent of soap.

She regarded him curiously. "That's the question, isn't it?"

Cullen blushed even more deeply and held his tongue. She put the bowl down on the barrel between them and they sat in awkward silence. He wondered if he should ask her to discharge the spell so that he could leave.

She stood up and nearly hit her head on the low shelf. "Andraste's arse! Sorry. I should be going. Um. I wanted to explain why I was asking about your vows. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable." She met his gaze for a moment and looked away quickly. "In the Ostwick Circle, we are made to take such vows. And they take-steps to ensure that we do not reproduce."

Before he could say anything, she was gone, the discharging magic leaving a sharp tang to replace the smell of her hair.


	3. Duelling

It helped to be tired, which was one reason why he worked until he couldn't see straight, then woke up and did it all again. Between the constant parade of messengers and reports, he found the time to drill his soldiers and occasionally, "beat the shit out of them", as she called it. One never improved without fighting with someone faster, stronger, more skilled, but she disapproved anyway.

Doing this meant that some nights he didn't dream at all. Tonight though, he wasn't even winded. He had disarmed the hapless recruit in seconds, and he made a mental note to speak to the man's sergeant.

"You're getting sloppy, commander." Cullen turned to see the Iron Bull grinning at him. "You haven't fought with someone who can match you in weeks."

Cullen could see where this was going. Why not? He was not feeling the effects of the lyrium withdrawal today. "Get in the ring, Bull." He settled into an easy guard as the Bull hefted his greataxe, grinning like a madman. He never could understand how the Bull handled it so precisely with only a single eye.

The Bull's first swing was easily deflected, and the huge qunari pulled back, still grinning. He was testing his strength, looking for an opening.

"I think we have an audience."

"Shall we show the men how it is done?"

The Bull chuckled. "I think the Inquisitor is interested in how you do it, yes."

He felt the blush creeping up his neck towards his ears, but did not dare take his eyes off the qunari. The Bull took pity on him and relaxed his grip on his weapon. "Go on, I'll wait."

She was muffled in a scarf, stamping her feet in the cold. She waved when he looked her way, a shy little flick of her hand before it was shoved back into a warm pocket. Dorian was with her, and he leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Cullen knew that Dorian was not and would never be interested in her in that way, but he still felt a sharp stab of jealousy.

He turned back to the Bull in time to side step the axe coming down. He heard her gasp, but kept moving, shield slamming into the Bull's side. He danced away as the Bull doubled over. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted silver blue light dancing over her fingers: a barrier ready to go.

The Bull was grinning again. "You two have been making eyes at each other since I got to Haven, and that was months ago. When are you going to do something about it? The boss wants you to, you know."

He caught another blow awkwardly, the impact jarring his shield arm and leaving it numb. "It's not that simple," he growled through gritted teeth, backing out of range of the axe. Between the Bull's height and the axe's length, that was a very long way indeed.

"The way I see it, it is." The Bull closed quickly and Cullen ducked under his reach, sword coming up to rest under the Bull's chin. The Bull laughed, "Well played."

"Too much talking, big man."

"Or maybe I let that happen for your benefit." He winked his eye. "I guess you'll never know." Raising his voice, "You got me good there, commander. I'll get you next time."

"We'll practice defending against mauls and greataxes at dawn. At ease, soldiers. Get some rest."

The Bull chuckled again; Cullen was thoroughly sick of being mocked by now. "Talk to the boss. It doesn't have to be about the Inquisition, or mages and templars." He clapped his large hand on Cullen's shoulder before leaving.

Dorian spoke to her in a low voice, winked at Cullen suggestively and took his leave. She unwound the scarf from around her face, nose red with the cold and snowflakes settling in her hair. "You did well." She smiled at him, and had the Bull still been there, he would have noted how Cullen's expression softened. "I was scared for you. The Bull can be a sneaky bastard sometimes."

"I must admit, I sleep a little better knowing that he's guarding you."

Her face wrinkled as she considered this. "He has almost decapitated me a few times, so I have mixed feelings about that. That's why I don't get in sword fights."

"That's prudent, but it never hurts to know how to handle oneself in close quarters." I would prefer you stayed out of harm's way but that doesn't seem to be an option, he added silently.

She scoffed at that. "I don't think I've ever mentioned this, but my father hired a weapons master to train me to use a staff when I was twelve. It worked out about as well as you might imagine."

"I could train you. With a blade on the end, your staff could be a formidable weapon."

"Have you looked at my arms lately?" He took both her arms then, and found that he could encircle her upper arms with his fingers. She did have a point. Slightly surprised by his daring, he slid his hands down her arms and took her hands in his. Small, slender mage hands, cold to the touch even through his gloves. He pressed her hands between his, trying to warm them.

"I still could try, if you were willing. Magic is finite, and it's always good to have another trick up your sleeve."

She smiled lopsidedly. "Very well then. When would you like to begin?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"As you wish, commander. We should both get some rest."

He let go of her hands reluctantly and watched her go. She looked back as she closed the door into the keep, a brief smile and she was gone.

He cut a forlorn figure, alone in the snow before he abruptly pulled on his coat and headed to the armoury. They would need practice staffs and spears; it wouldn't do to damage her staff and its crystal. There was a book on spear forms in his library; it had been years since he had used anything but a sword and shield.

Tomorrow night. That was a promise. He had work to do, and then if the Maker was willing, he would sleep well. If only he could stop wishing that he had kissed her.


	4. Execution

"The magister will arrive at Skyhold today, Inquisitor."

She was being scrutinised, much to her displeasure. Her report of the events at Adamant had reached Leliana borne on raven wings several days before their arrival. Cullen had stayed behind to organise the surviving soldiers, before taking several templars to escort the magister back to Skyhold. The magister was being kept unconscious with a combination of sleeping draughts, but was also restrained with heavily warded manacles. She had inspected the wards before she and her companions had set out, irrationally terrified about leaving Cullen with the monster who had destroyed the Wardens. She knew that he was well equipped for the task, nonetheless she had pulled him into his tent to kiss him angrily and order him to come home safe. As usual, a runner had walked in on them and that was that.

Leliana looked strangely predatory in the early morning light, shadowing the hollows of her gaunt cheeks and hooded eyes. She was still testing the Inquisitor, judging Evelyn against her love for the Divine and her shattered faith.

"The magister will face judgment in the coming week. The troops will not be far behind, we should first see that they receive a welcome befitting the victory at Adamant. We also need to see to the remaining Wardens. I want to speak to Stroud when he arrives, and they need quarters away from the mages and the rest of the army for now. I want them to mingle more when tempers settle, but not while the wounds are still fresh."

"I will see to it, Inquisitor."

She smiled gratefully at Josephine. Many of those duties would have fallen to Cullen, but she was grateful that he wouldn't arrive only to be deluged by work. She would have to thank Cassandra too; doubtless she would be quietly-well, firmly-lending a helping hand.

* * *

He was easy to spot in the crowd, standing out in red (harder for the men to tell when you're hurt and bleeding, Inquisitor. She had hoped that he had been joking). His soldiers and runners scurried as he barked commands.

She lingered on the battlements watching him, drawing uninteresting threads of the Fade around her like a cloak. He saw through it as usual, looking straight at her and stopping dead in his tracks, sternness melting from his brow. His face brightened into an almost smile until a Warden began talking to him, gesticulating urgently. He waved him off and called his templars over. The templars dragged a limp figure out of the barred carriage, carrying it towards the dungeon.

* * *

The festivities were well under way when he finally made his way back into his office, closing the door on the drunken singing outside. He gripped his pommel instinctively, sensing he wasn't alone. A small bright spark drifted from her fingers, flaming briefly to light the candle before fizzling out. She was curled up in his chair, the absurd Inquisition sword lying on his cluttered desk. The gaudy dragon curled around its hilt threw strange reflections on her face.

He unbuckled his sword and laid it next to hers before taking her into his arms. "I thought I'd lost you again. Maker, when that dragon showed up and that wing of Adamant collapsed..."

They clung to each other fiercely. There had been no time at Adamant to be lovers; only time enough for the Inquisitor to brief her commander of the events before leaving, Wardens not far behind.

There was time now. She had been there when the bulk of the soldiers marched in and had been the first to crack open the kegs, conspiratorially whispering to him about creating a distraction. It seemed to be working well.

He kissed her with increasing hunger but she gently pushed him away. "I'm sorry. I need you to help me with something."

For a heated moment, he had a mind to suggest that he knew what help she needed best, but immediately regretted the thought. She was watching him gravely."You know that you need only ask."

"I wanted to make Erimond Tranquil. I would but for this damned rumour of a cure." She laughed bitterly. "Monster that I am, I want him to suffer a fate worse than death. But I can't. So he must die." She pulled herself up to look him in the eye. "You have to teach me how to use that sword to kill him."

He understood. She did not trust that she would make the killing blow a clean one. "I could do it-or one of our soldiers."

"No." She exhaled, an angry little sound that was equal parts scorn and self-loathing. "The judgment must come from the Inquisitor, and so must the punishment."

That explained the sword, which had been hanging on the wall in her quarters until now. He recalled being a little surprised that it wasn't rusting, but no doubt someone had been tasked with polishing it. He drew it out of its scabbard, which was surprisingly sensible plain leather. Heavy, and strangely balanced with the dragon hilt. He ran his thumb along the edge cautiously; it could use some work with a whetstone.

"Hanging him or using magic is not an option?"

"No. I don't want this to be about magic. It's simply that being an arsehole who wants to turn the world into a wasteland will not be tolerated. Hanging might work, but it's not ideal." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "The fact that we are having this conversation is also very strange."

"We live in interesting times." He sheathed the sword before reaching over to kiss her again. Safety first. He would never have admitted to the little twinge of regret that they were not spending the night differently, but here they were, about to practice decapitating a man in his office.

He turned the wooden dummy on its side after digging out his throwing knives. She drew the sword at his word, and he came to stand behind her, gently correcting her grip. Hands over hers, he moved her through the downward stroke. She was stronger than she was before he had began teaching her fighting with staff and spear (he loved her but she was hopeless at it), but her arms still trembled with the exertion by the fourth stroke.

It needed to be swift, decisive. He groaned inwardly at the thought of watching her hack the magister's head off in stages, although the bastard deserved it. If she was planning to put it off until she could do it personally, the magister would be waiting for a while.

* * *

"See, this is why I keep you around." She was lying on his chest and her hair tickled his bare skin whenever she moved. "A strong pair of arms to carry heavy things and chop off heads."

She felt the chuckle rather than heard it. "I am, after all, yours to command."

"So I command the commander? Isn't that interesting?"

He pulled himself out from under her, pushing her onto her back. "Very interesting," he agreed. "But a good officer also knows how to take the initiative."

* * *

There was a lot of blood. She hated the sound of metal shearing through flesh and bone. She hated making him do her dirty work for her, although he had done it in one clean stroke, face impassive. He left his sword bare; she knew he would clean it fastidiously, broodingly. He was a warrior, but he had never struck down a helpless foe.

It was a complete farce. Slaughtering the monster in public, to lay the people's fears to rest. Or to quench their thirst for blood? She felt sick watching the blood pool on the flagstones. Would they be able to get rid of the stain?

She tried to breathe as the crowd roared. Erimond needed to die, but it could have been different. She should have killed him, quick and quiet, and then they could have displayed his body. But she knew that they (especially the Wardens) needed to watch him die, and to feel that he had received his just deserts.

Cullen, her right hand, who had never killed a man in cold blood. She offered prayers to a Maker whose existence she doubted: please don't let them see him as an executioner. Please don't let this hurt him.

She left the battlements without addressing the crowd further. There was nothing to be said.

* * *

She found him in the armoury, an assortment of oils in front of him as he cleaned his sword. He had declined using the ornamental one that they had given her.

He was alone and she was glad his soldiers had the good sense to give him space. She put her arms around him, burying her face in the back of his neck, smelling his clean, masculine scent. He was still for a moment before sheathing his sword and turning to her.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his chest. "I shouldn't have made you do it."

"It was my suggestion. I was not forced into it."

"He died by my word, and should have also died by my hand!" She said hotly, almost in tears.

"It is done, and it is what had to be done." He brushed her face with the back of his hand-his hands were greasy.

Looking at him, she understood what Cole had said about the templars feeling older than they were. He was solemn, timeless in his sadness. She pressed her forehead to his.

She knew she was being selfish, but she should have let someone, anyone else take the blow. Blackwall could have struck it for the Wardens (false as he was). The Bull might have laughed as he parted the magister's head from his body. But she knew in her heart of hearts that it was precisely because Cullen did not take it lightly that she had let him do it, and that she loved him for it.

"I'm fine." He wasn't, not truly, but he was better than he would have been if the tables had been turned. Better him than her. "Do not regret his death. So many died because of his actions, and he suffered far less than they did."

She sighed as she pulled away. "I need to go. Vivienne's dressmaker is waiting." She trailed a finger along his cheek. "At least you'll be coming with us to Halamshiral. I'm told that the dressmaker was in raptures when you put on the dress uniform."

He smiled a little at that. "I wish you had been there to defend my honour."

"I'll tell him to keep his hands off." She paused at the door. "Thank you. For...everything."

Then she was gone and he was left to his thoughts.

* * *

He had asked Blackwall and the Bull to spar with him that night, one after another. Having collected some new bruises and a concussion, he spent a long time in the baths, head spinning every time he tried to stand up.

He was caught off guard by her in his bed, a book in one hand and staff in the other. She clutched the book to her chest defensively.

"You're late," she said accusingly. He was too tired to argue, too confused to wonder what she was doing.

She made him lie down, clever fingers finding the goose egg on his head where Blackwall's mace had clipped him. She pressed her hand firmly against it and the swelling subsided, his headache and nausea receding like the outgoing tide.

He was starting to drift off to sleep when she took her hand away. She thumbed the book open to the page she had been reading. It was crumpled from being crushed against her chest; Dorian would not be pleased.

He had assured her that it would work. Dreamless sleep! She couldn't imagine such a thing or being away from the Fade, not even after being trapped by the Nightmare in Adamant. But Cullen had been trapped in nightmares for years.

Her fingers tapped impatiently as she tried to memorise how to trace the glyph. The motif of sleep bound within stone. Ah.

Standing on the bed, she picked her staff up and the crystal flared to life. Her index finger left a small silver trail as she traced the glyph in the air above him. It blazed gold when complete, then vanished.

His breathing was still relaxed. She slid her staff to the floor and put the book under his bed. Pulling the covers over them both, she flicked her fingers at the candle and it obediently went out. There was more than one way to soothe a nightmare, and she would be there when he woke.


	5. Happy: Part 1

Part 1 of fluff, and new flagship chapter.

* * *

"You sound happy." He folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope before tucking it into a drawer.

When was the last time his happiness had been important to anyone? He'd been happy the day he had left for the templars, but afterwards it got lost amidst words like 'honour' and 'duty'. Rejoice in serving the Maker.

Then the Blight had happened, and he had simply survived, kept going with the same bull-headed, foolish tenacity that had prevailed against the voices crawling around his skull. The terror never truly left, and it was there waiting when Meredith lost her mind.

That was before. And now...

He had been astonished to find himself smiling at the sight of her trudging up the path to Haven, complaining about the cold with wind-chapped lips. He caught himself looking for her in her favourite quiet corners, even when she was away (by all reports, thrashing through the Hinterlands and getting attacked by bears).

He had thought it was too good to be true, and the familiar taste of despair had returned when he asked her how she would escape and she turned away (damn you, Varric, and your talk of heroic deaths). But duty is what he knew, and he did his duty well. It still didn't stop him from hoping, praying as he let the signal arrow fly.

It was a succession of bright moments after that. Finding her in the snow (he would never leave her like that again). The way she smiled every time their eyes met (sometimes warm, sometimes devious). Chess on Fridays (she was terrible at it but he always let her win). The first time they kissed (her nose was cold). The coin in her hand, being with her where he had always been the happiest (Mia always knew how to read between the lines).

She had asked him then, eyes soft with...love? "Are you happy?".

He thinks he said yes; he can't be sure. He was drunk on happiness, reeling with every look and touch and kiss. He does know that he did kiss her, knows she pulled his head down to meet her lips when she tired of standing on tiptoes.

There is a knock on the door. He holds it open as she shuffles in with a cup of tea in each hand and a book tucked under one arm. After putting everything down, she gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "How's the paperwork going?"

"I have a short letter to write, and then I'm all yours."

She is already curling up in the plush armchair in the corner that she saw fit to add to his office. "Take your time, I'm trying to puzzle something out." Within seconds she is completely focused on her book, tongue stuck out in her little frown of concentration.

He watches her for a moment before he unstops his ink bottle, dips his quill in and begins. "Mia-"


	6. Happy: Part 2

A/N: I know that this is a generous helping of cheese, but I like to think they have that effect on each other. This is the companion piece to the previous chapter. Thanks for all the follows and favourites! :D

* * *

The first time in her life that she remembered being unhappy was in the Circle. She was lying in the upper bunk that would be her bed in the years to come, surrounded by strangers, away from home for the first time in her life. Her father had promised he would come and takeI her home at the end of the week, but the older girl who was in the lower bunk had told her that her family had said that too, but they lied. Nobody loves mages, she said.

Evelyn was not alone, but she had never felt more lonely. She had cried quietly, burying her face in the lumpy pillow.

Then Friday had arrived, and her father was there to take her home. There had been a long conversation between her papa, her uncle Martin in all his templar armour, auntie Lucille (well, papa's auntie, she kept forgetting to call her Revered Mother) and the First Enchanter, who had pumpkin soup in his beard.

Her father had taken her by the hand after all of that and she had come home to her mama's arms and a dinner of her favourite food.

She hadn't been as unhappy after that, but the Circle had made her suffer in many little ways for it. In every class, someone would knock over her flasks or spill ink on her notes. She invariably sat alone at meals until she figured out that the Tranquil didn't hate her because they didn't hate anyone, so she sat with them instead. She grew adept at probing her bed for creepy crawlies and for the odd hex. One itch curse had been enough to inculcate lifelong caution.

She hadn't really been unhappy at Circle despite all of that, but she hadn't been happy either.

Outside the Circle, her parents insisted that she fulfil her social obligations as Bann Trevelyan's daughter. She learned to keep her mouth smiling even as her eyes screamed murder when yet another thoughtless noblewoman tittered about her being a mage, that they should be careful that she didn't turn them all to frogs. She kept to herself the thought that it would be a marked improvement. Her parents, too, kept smiling. She knew that they wanted to show the Ostwick nobility that she was no more than another girl, that some battles were better won with stiff upper lips, but that was cold comfort.

At home, they interrogated her about the week's events. Within weeks, she had decided that telling them about most things only served to make them unhappy and that there was really nothing they could do to change things. So she began deflecting most questions with amusing stories or boring technical explanations about various spells (thermodynamics tended to be a safe bet when trying to dissuade them from further inquiry).

Nowadays they simply wrote numerous letters, usually starting with with whether she was hurt (unsurprisingly, they had been very anxious since the Conclave blew up, and even more so since she dropped the side of a mountain on her own head). Her current fallback these days were anecdotes involving bears. "Bears in the wild smell bad, much worse than the ones in the zoo that papa used to bring us to. They're also very grumpy! I wonder why most children have stuffed bears as toys."

She generally left out the parts that included demons, blood magic, red templars and an immortal darkspawn magister. Oh, and the part where she almost got mauled by a bear before the Bull had put his axe through its skull.

Her last missive had included extensive details about spiders (she somehow forgot to mention that they were Fade-spiders representing the fears of every sentient in Thedas and that she was in the Fade because she had fallen off a bridge destroyed by an archdemon). Had her parents been more credulous, they would have thought she spent a lot of time slaughtering wildlife. Unfortunately, they were doubtless aware of the censorship.

She folded the latest letter with a sigh; as usual, her father had asked, "Are you happy?". He had taken to asking her direct questions as she grew older and more evasive.

The answer was not what it had been.

She set out for his office after pulling on two more coats. He still neglected to mention the hole in the roof to the builders despite her repeated hints, then threats about it. She had a feeling he thought the cold discouraged bothersome people from lingering.

Snowflakes were gently drifting through the hole in the roof, getting stuck on the fur ruff of his coat. He was frowning at a stack of paperwork when she opened the door carefully, trying not to make it squeak.

"Evelyn." The way he said her name still made her heart turn cartwheels. He stood to greet her as he always did, but the kisses were new and wonderful.

"I need to write a letter. To Ostwick." He sat her down in his chair, producing ink and paper from various drawers.

"How do I tell them about you? Maker's knickers! I should just put you in a box and mail you to Ostwick. Or you could just come with me to Ostwick when all of this is over." She smiled sheepishly when he laughed. "Would you?" she asked in a small voice.

"Of course." He gave her a tight hug. She looked at him, helpless in the face of tenderness as he thought to himself; so this was might come after; Ostwick, and a chance to ask her father for her hand.

She was too was thinking about what might come after; both she and Cullen horribly seasick crossing the Waking Sea, her parents delighted to meet him (they both feared she would be alone forever), travelling with him to all the Wonders of Thedas (the real ones, not that awful shop in Denerim).

The start of a happily ever after.


	7. Red

He regretted his decision to accompany them as soon as he could hear the lyrium's soft song. There were no words but his own thoughts, but it woke the hunger, the pain. He was a fool, and he didn't pull himself together, he would be putting her in danger. It was his own damned idea. He had slept better knowing he would be there to put himself between her and Samson. Slept better with her by his side, in the same tent for the first time, tangled in their blankets, making love as quietly as they could. She had protested at first, worried that it wasn't appropriate. He didn't disagree, but having her sleeping form pressed against him and her soft skin so easily accessible made it hard. He had woken early one morning to her hands slipping under his clothes and the last of his self control evaporated. If she wasn't going to play by her rules, neither was he. After a few heated, urgent minutes, she was moaning quietly into his neck.

He jerked himself back to the present. He tried to think of any verse of the Chant of Light, but the only one that would come to him was "With passion'd breath does the darkness creep. It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep."

She was biting her lip and trying not to look worried as she watched him. "Are you all right?" she asked evenly. Her hands reached out to him instinctively, but she balled them into fists and instead took hold of her staff. The lyrium sang to him again, when did you make her scared of touching you? You smashed your lyrium set in a blind rage. Did you see her reach out to you then pull away?

Maker, he was a selfish fool. Samson had not been his match in Kirkwall, but with red lyrium armour and his own abilities diminished since he had stopped taking it, the playing field had changed. What could one washed out ex-templar do against another one using red lyrium?

"I'm fine. There is a lot of red lyrium in there. We must be careful."

"He can hear it. I can hear it too. It eats away at them and then it wants more. They want more."

"Cole, please concentrate for a moment," she said quietly. "Cassandra, please take point. We should also find out if your Seeker gift works on ingested red lyrium. Bull, stay with her and guard her flanks. Cole and Cullen, watch my back and support them where you are able. Are we clear?"

"Let's go."

They made steady progress, encountering far fewer red templars than they had feared. Bull and Cole cut down most of them within seconds when her magic smashed them to the ground. For his part, he merely deflected the odd blow aimed at her and tried to empty his mind. She moved oddly through the battlefield with worryingly little awareness of her surroundings, relying instead on her usual subtle barrier to avoid notice. More than once she walked around the corner into a red templar as she was looking for a vantage point to help Cassandra, only for him to get between them, always terrified for her. The red templar invariably engaged him, completely ignoring her even as she pummelled it with spells.

He was going to worry even more when he wasn't there. But things were going better than he had expected; the adrenaline of battle had muted of the pain and the intrusive thoughts, although the lyrium hunger still gnawed at him. He had endured worse.

They finally reached the main chamber, and everything was ablaze. Arrows whistled past them and Cassandra and Bull were rapidly flanked by both red Templars and demons. Cole disappeared, and was flitting around them judging by the screams and the flash of daggers. The Bull roared from somewhere in the smoke; he sounded like he was in trouble. Angry, but also hurt. They needed to hurry. Things were turning bad fast, and the fire would destroy everything if they didn't end things decisively. Cullen plunged in, heading towards the qunari, striking at enemies where there gaps in their guard but not engaging them.

Cole screamed then, "No!" He flashed past, sprinting back to the entrance and seconds later, Evie's cry of pain silenced everything else. Their barriers fizzled out at that same instant.

Cullen ran too, catching blows on his arm plates as he wove through the melee. Magic flared, a barrier's light, the sound of rocks falling. When he cleared the smoke, Evie was on the ground, a red templar shadow's dagger arm raised high above her as she knocked it back. Cole was furiously fighting another, rolling, dodging, parrying, stabbing.

The first shadow is running towards her again with dagger arms at the ready, he was too far away, Maker no, but she slows it, frost turning to ice over its armour. He throws himself at it shield first, his momentum and full weight behind the charge and the ice on it shatters. He slashes at it again and again before it can recover, sword scraping uselessly against the red lyrium on its skin, dancing out of reach of its daggers aiming for his hamstrings. When it tries to jump to its feet, he bashes it in the head with his shield and his sword's point finds a chink. He throws his strength behind the thrust and twists the sword before he pulls it out.

She is lying too still, and he cradles her to him, fight forgotten. She opens her eyes, touches his face with a cold hand and he forces a healing potion between her lips. He checks her pockets with clumsy, impatient hands, finding a lyrium potion and lifting it to her lips, growling, "Evie, you have to stay awake, you have to heal yourself. Evie!"

He puts pressure on the wound, half blind with tears as he kisses her. It's in the small of her back, and her leather armour is soaked. More warm blood seeps around his fingers. "Stay with me, Evie. I'm such a fool, I should never have brought you here, I was meant to guard you. I love you."

"Cullen." He thinks her pupils are dilating from the lyrium, her eyes are so dark that it's hard to tell. Blue and green sparks dance over her skin, racing to the wound under his hand. Her breathing settles into a more natural rhythm instead of the fast shallow breaths she'd been taking.

He almost weeps with relief when he takes away his hand and no more blood soaks through. He pulls her leather coat off, pulls up her shirt and finds a new pink scar. He holds her face in his hands, kissing her again and again, leaving red smears on her neck and cheeks from his bloody gloves. Her mouth is gentle against his, whispering, "I'm fine. It's all right."

Cassandra and Bull limp up from the smoky chamber below, coughing and spluttering. He kisses her one last time before pulling away, mind already racing. Yet another way that he had failed. He had left them to whatever had been done there heedlessly, caring only that she lived. Cole suddenly pops into view at Evie's side, face attentive and uncomfortably close to them.

"You all right, boss? What happened here?"

She takes hold of Cullen's shoulders and tries to pull herself to stand. He puts his hands on her waist and stands with her, supporting her as she sways a little, no doubt dizzy from the blood loss. She reaches around to the new scar, running her fingers over it gingerly and says with a grimace, "Red templar shadows. Two of them." She lifts her shirt a little more and he sees a smaller second new scar a few inches above, on her lower ribs.

Cassandra grips both of their shoulders sympathetically. "The chamber is cleared. We should search it quickly before the fire destroys everything."

She is smiling widely now, more than a little lyrium-drunk again. He has only seen her like this once before, months ago, and had thought at the time that she didn't use much lyrium. He had not been wrong on that count. "Don't worry about that. I'll get the fires down." The air around her cools, and she lifts pale hands as cold mist streams from her fingers. Beyond them, the fires shrink back into corners and sputter.

"It's all thermodynamics, you see. I'm the catalyst. Sort of. I take that heat and put it somewhere else. The Fade can hold it for a time. Then later, I'll make something explode." She giggled at their blank looks and he put a water skin in her hand. She drank obediently, but it would take hours for the lyrium to wash out.

He slung his shield around his shoulders and picked up his sword again. Cassandra's lips quirked as he steered Evie towards the main chamber, but she led them through. They passed rapidly through the now empty chamber, eventually finding Maddox in the back room. She shook her head when she saw him; too far gone. She still took Maddox's hand, let her magic flare.

"Thank you. It does not hurt anymore."

She leaned on him as they walked out, and as they were setting up camp later, tugged on his sleeve to show him the coin in her palm.

* * *

She sat up to drink and made the mistake of doing it too quickly. Her vision went dark until she lowered herself back down. She took it slow the second time, then finished off her waterskin and Cullen's for good measure.

He was twitching, eyes moving jerkily under closed lids. She felt a twinge of guilt; she should have drawn the glyph of warding before she had gone to sleep. He still had the occasional nightmare with it, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been. Instead she snuggled close, called his name until he woke up.

"How are you feeling?" He kissed the top of her head.

"Much better. I might have finished all your water though."

"Good."

"Bad dreams?"

"I made mistakes back there. I could have gotten all of you killed. I'm not the warrior I used to be. Not without lyrium."

"You don't need it."

"I could have lost you there. With the lyrium, I would have known they were sneaking past us, would have been fast and strong enough to keep you safe. My duty was to guard you and I failed that. Forgive me, my love."

"It's all right. I should have seen them coming. They're _big_ and _spiky_. Anyway, it all worked out as well as it could have." She tweaked his nose. "No more leaving me alone and running off to play with swords, commander. As we've seen today, that's a bad idea."

"Never. I swear it by the Maker."

"Good. Have they retrieved Maddox yet?"

"Yes. He was buried not far from here." He was running his fingers over her new scars, and they tingled a little at his touch. The healing was not quite complete. "We never really talked about Maddox."

"What's there to say? I could have been him. I could have been born in Kirkwall, and I would have been made Tranquil." His arms tightened around her and she sighed. "I don't mean to hurt you. It's as you said; if things had happened differently, you could have been with the red templars like Samson and Carroll. I might have died at the Conclave, or have been forced to fight for my life against someone like you. I was fortunate to be in Ostwick, within reach of my family's protection. But there's no sense in dwelling in what ifs. What's important is that we are here."

His scar moved under her fingertips as he smiled. "She says there's nothing to say, and then delivers a speech."

"Mocking your glorious leader now? Who can take me seriously when even my general doesn't?"

The laugh started low and deep in his chest, but he sounded solemn when he spoke. "You speak the truth. You know I am not proud of the man I was. If I had met you in Kirkwall, or Ferelden after the Blight..."

"It takes time. Don't fault yourself for it. You learned. You grew as a person. You're cuddling a mage, isn't that proof enough?"

"I don't know. Mage or not, any man would want you in his arms."

"Cullen, I keep having to remind all of you that mages are far too prone to explosions. You do not, under _any_ circumstances, dance with them, hug them, kiss them, or, Maker forbid, make love to them." She pulled both his ears playfully. "Maker, you'd think a templar would have more sense."

"It is just as well that I am no longer a templar then." One hand pulled her hips towards him firmly and the other wandered under her shirt, calluses rough against her skin. "Don't scare me like that again. First Haven, then Adamant and now this? I never want to lose you. Always remember that." He paused after a particularly long kiss, the heat fading from his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

He frowned. "You have no battlefield awareness! We must work to correct that. We begin tomorrow. I cannot keep sending you to battle when I find it difficult to understand how you have survived this long."

"You're hopeless. Go to sleep, commander. Or did you wish to calibrate some trebuchets while you were at it?"

* * *

_So this was loosely based off what actually happened in game. They all ran off and then the PC was killed by a red templar shadow one-two stabbity stab. Thanks for watching my back, guys!_ :|


	8. Green

_Sorry about the weird past-present-past tense shifting in the previous chapter! :p I hope you enjoy this one, which is once again a companion piece of sorts to the previous chapter. It's unabashedly fluffy, but that's the flavour of the moment. Thanks for the favourites and follows, and I always love constructive criticism!_

* * *

Haven was permanently steeped in the strange green light of the Breach. It made her feel like she was swimming in one of the ornamental ponds in Trevelyan estate, water green and heavy with pondweed. Fish stirred the water from time to time; greedy mouths opening and closing as she fed them bread crumbs from the table. She never understood why she did it; their gaping mouths and unblinking eyes repulsed her, but she was also fascinated to the point that she found it hard to look away.

He caught her looking at his arm guards, her face probably as stupid and blank as the fish. Polite as ever, he inquired, "Is there something you need?"

She decided against telling him that they were all fish swimming in a pond, and instead reached for his wrist tentatively, glancing at his face when she realised that she had never touched him and worrying that she was about to cross a line. His face was guarded, but she figured it was too late to turn back (take a big breath, don't cringe at how awkward you are). He made no move to stop her but he did not unfold his arms either. She took his wrist gingerly and gently turned it from side to side, showing him how the light of the Breach reflected off his armour. She hadn't noticed it when he was down at the training grounds, but here in front of the Chantry, his armour glowed as green as her mark did. "It's fascinating." She would almost say that it's beautiful, but for how it kept spitting out demons.

He smiled then, one of those gentle small ones that she hoped he saved for her. "I hadn't noticed that."

Unsurprisingly, that was the moment Chancellor Roderick reappeared. They pulled away from each other, him folding his arms again and she shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Well, if it isn't the self-declared Herald of Andraste and her templar again. Aren't you meant to be off to Val Royeaux by now?"

"All in good time, Chancellor. One must make a suitable impression, and the first step to doing that is to be fashionably late. The Chantry mothers are nothing if not patient." She thought the better out of it only once the words had left her mouth.

Roderick never took much goading. "How dare you disrespect-"

Cullen pointedly stepped in front of her and she peered around his fluffy shoulders at the Chancellor. "The Herald and I were speaking to each other. If we wished your opinion, we would have asked for it. Good day, Chancellor."

"I'm sure _speaking_ is all you were doing," he said in a voice heavy with irony. "I see I'm not wanted, but I'm sure others have the time for me. Good day. You should find Val Royeaux most enlightening." The Chancellor stomped off when neither of them deigned to reply.

Cullen was flushed, and she wondered if it was with anger or something else altogether. "I apologise for the Chancellor's comments, Lady Trevelyan."

Oh. Annoyance it was. She was getting annoyed too, mainly because of how disappointed she felt (stop being silly, you have bigger problems).

"Why should you apologise? If anything, I should be the one doing so. I just made your job harder. He'll probably go off and try to incite some riots now."

He cleared his throat. "He would have done so anyway." She didn't notice him looking at her anxiously. She looked so glum, and he wasn't quite sure why that mattered to him. "Do not worry about Roderick; he is what he is. It's...um, the weather is really nice."

She looked up at the constant magical thunderstorm centred on the Breach and smiled a little at the absurdity. He felt the blush creeping further down his neck. How should he excuse himself before he embarrassed himself more? Polishing his armour? Troop movement reports? Calibrating trebuchets?

She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, veins tracing delicate green patterns on her hands. So unlike the thick ropey ones on his own. "I don't know why the Breach and the rifts are so _green_. The Fade looks nothing like that to me. Not even in the Hinterlands, verdant as it is. It is very beautiful there, despite all the bears. Is Honnleath much the same?"

He hadn't thought about it for too long. He still answered when asked, yes, I am Fereldan, I grew up near Honnleath. Most people were happy to leave it at that, but she seemed genuinely curious.

"We had less bears than the Hinterlands does, judging by your reports."

"I wasn't exaggerating! Ask Varric if you wish." She wrinkled her nose adorably. "Were there any lakes or rivers near your village?"

"We were on the banks of one of the tributaries feeding Lake Calenhad. I loved swimming there in summer, but it was always cold. We used to submerge ourselves for as long as we could, and then lie in the sun on the docks to warm up." A little knot formed in his gut when he remembered the reckless abandon with which they had dove into the lake, frightening slippery eels that slithered away into the murk. He used to float on his back looking at the sun until all he could see was sunspots, and Mia would scold him when he pretended to be blind. It had been a simpler time.

"It sounds wonderful. But I can't see you swimming! I can't imagine you out of your armour." The image of a child laughing as he cannonballed into the cold depths did not match that of the commander. But they all had been young once.

He smirked a little. "It may be hard to believe, but I do sleep. And yes, before you ask, I do take my armour off." He wondered whether the question meant that she had actually tried to imagine him out of his armour, and why. Maker.

"I'll believe when I see it." From anyone else, it would have been flirting. From the Herald, it was merely a flippant joke. From anyone else, it would have made him think less of them. From her, he felt like there was a chance for...something, and it was slipping through his fingers as he stared at her dumbly. She was smiling mischievously, and he finally matched it with one of his own.

"Where is Honnleath? I was at best an indifferent student of geography and cartography." She rolled her eyes. "I didn't expect to be doing quite this much travelling, and certainly not in Ferelden and Orlais."

She said it lightly, but heavy between them was unspoken thought that she had expected to live in the Ostwick Circle for the rest of her life. She had told him that she was brought to the Circle before her sixth birthday (how ironic that she thought that he had been young when he joined the templars-he had spent twice the number of years outside the Circle that she had) . While he knew the Trevelyans ensured that she came home to them, much of the outside world must be new to her. As it was to him, in many ways.

"It will be easier for me to show you. After you, my lady." He held the door to the Chantry open for her. In the war room, he showed her on the map where Honnleath was, and his village.

As she placed a map marker on both and traced the surrounding major roads with a finger, she asked, "Did your home have a sod roof like the ones in the Hinterlands?" When he nodded, she grinned. "No wonder the Orlesians think you Fereldans quaint. I think it's a fantastic way to keep out the cold, but were there many spiders living in the sod?"

"Um. I do not believe so. If I may ask, is there any reason for asking this?"

"Why shouldn't I? As the Herald of Andraste, can I get us to declare a holy war on spiders?"

His curiosity was piqued. "As commander of the forces, I would support this motion, although I am interested as to why the Maker would set us on such a path."

"Because they're...spider demons? Any more detail than that is classified information, commander."

He could keep playing along. "If I'm going to commit my troops to the extermination of these eight-legged horrors, I need to know what you know."

She looked down, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Before I joined the Circle, I was reading in bed one night when a spider as big as my face fell next to me on the pillow."

"This is worse than I expected. Was that the first attempt on your life, Herald?"

She couldn't stop the giggles. "Yes! Although, maybe it wasn't quite that big." She held her fingers apart by a fraction of an inch. "Maybe it was just this big. But it assaulted my safe haven. And I couldn't find it after I flung the pillow across the room. I suspect it has spied on me since."

"Fear not; as you are our only hope in sealing the Breach, we shall defend you valiantly and ensure you never fall into the creature's grasp."

The door opened and they both startled. He hadn't realised that they had not moved from where they had been, heads close as they examined the map together. Part of him sarcastically noted that it was not for lack of space at that large table, and the thought burned his cheeks.

"Herald! We have been looking for you. It is time to depart for Val Royeaux." Cassandra looked back and forth at both of them, eyebrows knitting quizzically.

She flexed the fingers on her marked hand and jumped off her perch on the war table. "I hope you have a speech prepared, Cassandra. My plan is to look innocent and politely ask them to stop hinting that executing me is the Maker's will."

Cassandra sighed. "At least you are good at looking blameless. We will have a few days to practice what to say, and Josephine has prepared some points for us."

"Farewell, commander. Have fun putting out fires."

"Herald-Lady Trevelyan. Be careful."

She lingered at the door after Cassandra passed through. "I would say I always am, but that's a lie. I-take care, Cullen." With a final enigmatic smile, she closed the door and he let out the breath that he hadn't realised he had been holding.

* * *

He kept seeing green everywhere after that. Reflecting off his men's helmets. Flashing off his arm guards. Glinting off the sword Harritt was polishing. It all reminded him of her now, and that meant it was a hundred little reminders every hour that the Chantry might arrest and execute her or that assassins might be on her trail. His nights were worse than usual, with the tension of the day leaving him struggling the ease the pain curling in his muscles before he fell into barely remembered night terrors.

When Leliana's agent was reporting the news from Val Royeaux, even before he could think about templars and the Lord Seeker, his mouth was framing the word "good" when they were told that she was safe. She was investigating a Red Jenny lead and then had a party to attend with the leader of the loyalist mages, after which she would return.

Now it was a hundred little reminders that she was coming back, and he had a thousand things to do before then. He pored over reports from Therinfal and anything to do with the Lord Seeker. He and Leliana argued about using some of his templars to infiltrate those at Therinfal, but ultimately they agreed that it was too risky. He was confident she would see reason, that she would agree that they needed the templars. She was a mage, but she was one who understood the dangers of magic-after all, look at the mark upon her hand.

* * *

"It must be hard to them to thrive in the cold and frost."

She turned to see the commander approaching slowly, face wary. The elfroot that she had harvested weeks ago had just unfurled a single fresh green shoot today. She smiled tightly in acknowledgment before returning to shaping a small barrier against the cold for it. If not for her stupidly stripping all the mature leaves in the middle of winter, the plant would have easily survived until spring and then provided a constant slow supply of elfroot for the healers.

She had been avoiding him since they had agreed to her little compromise. He still had not seemed pleased that she was approaching the mages at all, but it made sense to her. Cassandra, Cullen and Josephine stood the best chance of getting an audience with the templars, provided they managed to wrestle enough nobles to provide them with the necessary political support. For her part, she knew the mages wanted to talk to her. No need to play games with nobles. Leliana just needed enough agents who could provide her with backup, should things go pear shaped. He had agreed reluctantly, arguing that sometimes the middle road got you exactly nowhere, which was word for word what her father liked to say. It was true that both groups may simply refuse their aid if they learned the other side was involved, but she figured that anyone who was willing to help probably could set aside their differences for long enough. Cullen, however, was tasked with keeping the peace in camp and had a hard time of it as it was.

"Just a moment. I'm in the middle of something." It needed to let water through but keep the cold out. But if it could let water through, it could also let air through and the freezing wind off the Frostbacks would kill the new shoots anyway.

He waited patiently as she swore, letting yet another barrier dissipate. What did he want anyway? She hated conflict. She had survived in the Circle by avoiding conflict at all costs. They were never going to agree on it, so he should just let the matter lie. The whole argument had frustrated her immensely. She was not convinced that the templars would be able to suppress the Breach, and he would not lend her any to test their powers on smaller rifts. Apparently they were needed to train the recruits. She conceded that he did have precious few trained men and a whole lot of people who could swing a sword about as well as she could (self-decapitation was a distinct possibility) but it then seemed like too much of a risk to pursue the templars on his word that it would work. She had argued then that the magic of the Breach was different, that when she had tried to close it, she could barely understand where to begin. It was a construct, key tethers removed and replaced to part the Veil. Even if the templars could help, they would be of no use to her without practice dampening that strange magic.

After all of that, she had no wish to speak to anyone. For the past few days, she had spent most of her time with healers and Minaeve, working on festering demon wounds. Finding limited success there, she had come out here to work on the barrier as a distraction, but her temper was fraying further with each failure.

"Can I help?" He crouched next to her, but she stood up and went to sit on the low wall. He joined her, and she could see there was no use in moving away again.

"Not really. Just trying to fix a stupid mistake I made. The one green thing in Haven, and I've killed it." She gestured vaguely at the plant.

"I see." They sat together in silence for a long minute before he broke it again. "I'm told you're departing for Redcliffe tomorrow."

"Yes. At least we'll be out of the cold for a time."

"Who is going with you?"

"Cassandra, Varric and Vivienne. I don't expect trouble, but if there is, it will be handy to have our Lady Seeker around. They don't really teach us to counter magic in the Circle. Will you be joining Josephine in Val Royeaux?"

He shrugged. "I'm not much use in the Great Game. I'm better off here where I'm needed. If they are to treat at Therinfal, I will meet them there. But that may be months away. Josephine has already started on a complicated diagram of favour trading, rumourmongering, and outright bribery. That was her attempt to explain it to me. She doesn't need that to remember what she's done and what she is to do next."

"In a different life, she would have been an excellent scholar."

"Like yourself?"

"Hardly! I read for pleasure, nothing more. Study is overrated."

"And what do you consider pleasing topics?"

"Stories. Legends. Tyrrda Bright-Axe and her leaf-eared lover. One day, I'll write something that will shamelessly plagiarise all of the best elements from every epic tale."

"You'll have to show it to me."

"Maybe. It may be more romance and adventure that anyone can handle." She had not thought that they could fall back to their usual easy back and forth after the war room. It would have been just as easy to take on the role of mage and templar again and reenact the conflict. But he had left that life for a reason.

The short winter dusk was well upon them so she called forth a bright little wisp; easy enough to do so close to the Breach. He looked strange in the green light, like a creature of legend himself with his beautiful wistful face.

He stood up with a sigh. "I must get back to work. There is much to do before you depart." He took a step towards her, and her heart raced. He did nothing but look at her, so close that she could have leaned forward and buried her face in his coat. "It feels like we are always saying goodbye." The tenderness in his voice made her heart skip a beat.

He turned on his heel sharply to leave, but stopped after a few steps. "A small squad of templars will accompany you, for as long as you have need of them. I hope you will let them aid you in sealing the rifts, and allow them to wait nearby while you treat with the mages. Travel safe, my lady. If you cannot promise caution, I will just have to find more ways to ensure your safety."

"Cullen-"

"As is my duty, my lady. I will see you in the morning before you leave?"

She pointed at him and the little wisp bobbed over, which made him smile. Her heart was in her mouth as she answered, "Yes, and again when I return. I hope to come back with good news."

"We all will pray for your success. But what is most important is that you return. Good night, Herald." The wisp followed him, bobbing excitedly.

She called after him. "Tell it to go away when you want to go to sleep!" In a softer voice, she said, "Good night, commander, and thank you." He did not seem to hear her and continued trudging back down to his men, leaving her alone in the failing light.


	9. Loss

The guard patrols had been established. Scouts latrines dug, enough tents set up, people fed and watered. Druffalo fed and watered. He mechanically ticked things off a list, numbly staring at a map of the Frostbacks. All that there was left to do was wait. Wait for the blizzard to blow itself out. Wait for the scouts to return and then figure out where they were. Wait for...the Herald to find them.

* * *

Mother Giselle patiently endured the bone-crushing grip of the soldier as the healers cleaned the deep ragged wound on his leg, slowly picking out shards of red lyrium. The commander entered the tent, brushing snow off his shoulders. His entrance was largely ignored; he was not an unfamiliar sight in the infirmary. He made his way around, speaking a few quiet words to each person until he stood before the Revered Mother.

"Mother Giselle?" His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, and he could not meet her gaze. "I know that you are busy...but can I speak to you for a moment?"

She led him to a dark corner of the healer's tent, where they could speak in relative privacy. He knelt before her, resting his head on clasped hands. "Please, mother, if you would say the Chant with me-"

She started with the Canticle of Trials. "Though all before me is shadow,

Yet shall the Maker be my guide."

"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond." He recited in little more than a whisper.

"For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light-"

"-And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost," he finished, face flushing as he pressed his forehead against his hands.

"Have hope, my child. I suspect that the Maker still has plans for the Herald, and that she will yet return to us."

His head snapped up, lips parted in preparation of a half hearted denial before she laid a gentling hand on his head. "It is not a sin to love."

"To _love_?" The commander seemed more confused than anything else. "Did you think that...ah, I...um, the Herald? That is, not the, um, case." The last sentence tripped out with pauses at all the wrong places. He cleared his throat nervously.

She had wedded too many couples to mistake the way the commander and the Herald looked at each other. Nonetheless, she did not challenge him, merely gazed at him levelly until he looked away, colour rising to his cheeks again.

"I pray she is not lost to us," he said quietly. "As we all do."

"As we all do," she echoed, before standing to leave.

* * *

Sand stung Rylen's eyes as the wind picked up. He squinted at the commander with watery eyes, waiting for his orders, but Cullen said nothing. He simply stared at the rubble, silent and stony faced.

"Did you see that rift open and close as that bridge collapsed, commander? It was uncanny. Half those bloody bricks probably brained some poor sod in the Fade."

"I saw it," Cullen replied harshly.

A runner slid around the corner and pounded towards them, shouting breathlessly, "Commander! Demons are pouring through the rift in the main courtyard, and the remaining Wardens are aiding in the fight against the demons."

"Tell the officers to hold the line. Reinforce the main courtyard, and make sure there are rotations for relief of the wounded and fatigued. Half the squads of mages and templars are to support our men and the Wardens in the main courtyard. The rest are to sweep the fortress. Clear any stray demons and make sure there are no other rifts."

The runner thumped his gauntlet over his heart and took off again.

"Where do you want me, commander? Shall I go to the main courtyard?"

"No. Take your best men and search the rubble. The Inquisitor was on that bridge."

"Commander-" His voice faltered. If that was true, then...

"Find the Inquisitor. I must join them in the courtyard." He finally met Rylen's eyes, and his were hard. "Go."

* * *

He waited.

They found nothing in the rubble save an unconscious magister, over whom the templars now stood guard.

She wasn't there.

The demons continue to burst from the rift sporadically, but what he could feel, even with his withdrawal-dulled senses, was something _big _pressing against the Veil.

She could still be deep within the piles of broken stone. Adamant would be her cairn.

They could not close the rift, but they could not leave it either. It spawned demons in numbers that would devastate their retreat.

Solas had theorised that they were in the Fade. "In the absence of anything else that fits the evidence, we must assume that the Inquisitor has learned to use her mark to open, as well as close rifts."

Cullen could not decide which was worse; the thought of her wandering the Fade with Dorian (mages were familiar with the Fade, he would be a help to her), Sera and the Iron Bull (both disastrous choices) or the thought of her lying wounded in the ruin while his troops slowly searched, moving one stone at a time.

She would come back. He should have kissed her before he sent her on after Clarel. He should have made her promise to be careful. He should have made her swear that she would come back.

He should have told her that he loved her.

The coin was heavy in his pocket as he drew his sword. "Inquisition! We swore to seal the Breach, and we did! We swore to follow. We swore to fight. We swore to triumph!"

The troops roared as green light split and cracked through the dusty air. They followed. They fought. They died.

* * *

He knew she was coming long before she came into view. The army had been winning ground for hours, but every inch was hard fought. The red templars had set up blockades, and their marksmen were difficult to dislodge. Nonetheless, he had flanked them and had them fighting on all fronts.

She cut through the messy battlefield, swift and sure as a well thrown knife. He heard the cheers even as he joined the ugly melee in front of the temple gates. He felt the prickle of her magic as she neared, and then she was there, a force of nature inexorably crushing the red templars to the ground to be cut down by their blades. One man would burst into flame and another would stiffen as ice crystallised over his skin.

When it was over, she pulled herself in, the crackle of her magic fading beyond the edge of hearing. Nonchalantly, she pulled out a bag of nuts and began eating them. Sera immediately stuck her hand into the bag, pilfering fully half of it. The Inquisitor politely offered some to Solas and Morrigan, both of whom declined. She shrugged and wolfed the rest down.

It was not in his nature to make the same mistake twice. Before she entered the elven temple, he maintained enough decorum to ask to speak to her in private, only to pull her behind a ruined wall and kiss her hard. As he led her off, he heard a disgusted sound that could have been either Morrigan or Cassandra.

"Be safe. Come back. I love you."

She whispered, "I've got luck on my side, remember?"

"And so you do." He forced himself to watch her go. He had armed her as best he could. The rune that would unmake Samson's armour was safely tucked in a pocket.

She turned back at the end of the long gateway, lifting a hand in farewell before she moved out of sight. He then turned his attention back to dismantling Corypheus' army. Each one that fell was one less sword turned at her throat.

* * *

Dorian watched the muscle in Cullen's jaw clench as the scout babbled on about how there was nothing but Samson, dead red templars and a broken mirror deep within the temple. The mysterious elves had abandoned their posts, melting like shadows into the verdant greenery.

When Cullen's flinty stare turned to him, he merely shrugged. "Don't look at me. Most Tevinter mages don't take the study of elven artifacts seriously. Our second resident apostate never let me within ten feet of her eluvian." Morrigan and Solas would have been the ones to ask, and they too had apparently vanished into thin air. With the Inquisitor. She was making a habit of it.

The commander ran his thumb along the hilt of his sword, frowning as he did. "Bring Samson back to Skyhold to face the Inquisitor's justice. Have Leliana and Josephine meet me back at the main camp. After that, I need an update from the Orlesian officers." When the scout left, he jerked his head at the temple. "Let's move."

"Didn't you just say you were going to meet our ladies of iron back at the main camp?"

"I will, when we are done here. She cannot have just _vanished_."

"Perhaps they travelled through the eluvian. Did she tell you of the crossroads that Morrigan showed her?"

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "I just-I need to see it. The scout said there were clear signs of battle. I-"

"I know." As a rule, Dorian tried not to fret about her, but simply reminded himself that she had an unrivalled knack for survival. He doubted that viewing the temple would give Cullen any reassurance; indeed, he often felt physically ill when he looked at the swathe of destruction she left in her wake, especially when he wondered how they had survived.

He was not wrong on that count. Cullen looked even more grim as he examined the burn marks on the walls and in the shrubbery, then the deep gouges in the earth where the dragon had landed. There was, in fact, not much besides a broken mirror and a bloodied pool of water before it.

"She's probably back in Skyhold by now, putting her feet up and having a cup of warm cocoa," he suggested.

Cullen smiled thinly. "I pray that is true. It is time for us to go. Josephine and Leliana will be waiting for me. I must organise the forces here before we return to Skyhold."

* * *

"-And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Her voice was warm, quiet. She had snuck up on him, treading light in her soft boots. "A prayer for you?"

"For those we have lost...and those which I am afraid to lose."


	10. Possession

_This kind of started as a counterpoint to the previous chapter but got pretty much completely derailed. Also Varric's friendfiction just kills me._

* * *

"Bull, can I ask you something?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"Why do you keep referring to Cullen as 'your templar' when you're talking to me?"

"Ehehehe."

"Bull, I'm being serious."

"She really has no idea, does she?" Dorian propped himself up on an elbow, suddenly interested in the conversation.

It was rare that the Bull found someone hard to read, and in her case, he still had not made up his mind if she just pretended to be oblivious or she truly was. He suspected that she was testing the waters, but her face was one of innocent bewilderment.

"You do it, Roderick does it. It seems disrespectful to Cullen; he's no longer a templar, and he's a commander now. Plus he doesn't belong to me."

"Oh, pish. Stop playing daft with us, you own him and you know it." Sera didn't bother to look over, continuing to twirl an arrow lazily between her fingers.

"All I own is the clothes on my back, and even then, some may argue those belong to the Inquisition." She fiddled with the spare hair ties she kept around her wrist. Her mouth was still smiling, but there was something wistful in the lines of her bowed head. Nonetheless, when she looked up, she seemed as bright as ever and her eyes were crinkled with amusement. "I'm not even your boss, given that Josephine is the one coughing up the gold for your exorbitant fees."

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "You're the one that hired me." He could explain why she was the boss, but where was the fun in that? Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra were watching her as carefully as he was. Every time they asked for her opinion was a test, and he noted that they invariably ended up doing as she suggested. While the power dynamic was very interesting, Cullen was even better entertainment. It was hilarious to catch his eye after he had been talking to the Herald and he was watching her go with that lost puppy look. Following their little disagreement about mages and templars, the Herald had avoided the commander for days and he had been so gruff that no one got more than two words out of him at a time. Fortunately for the soldiers, they seemed to have made up before she left for Redcliffe.

Dorian stroked his moustache thoughtfully and the Bull watched with undisguised interest. The mage pickled himself in red wine as much as any other Vint, but he made the Bull growl. "Don't try to change the subject, my dear girl. You should have seen the looks the commander has been giving me since we met. I'm not denying the man's appeal, if we had templars like that in Tevinter, I would have stayed-but since I am clearly the better looking one, he does seem rather jealous."

Sera rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on the back of her hands. "If we don't bring you back in one piece, he'll really chuck a shit, yeah? I mean, not like you're our only hope of closing that stupid big hole in the sky. He'd still be shitty even if you weren't. But you are. So what are we doing in this stupid swamp again? It smells worse than my farts."

"Finding our people." She smiled patiently when Sera made a face.

"We'd better get back quick or your templar's gonna have all those mages on his hands if they ever get off their arses and start walking. Ten silvers says he stabs one before we get back. Then it'll all go to shit, people get caught in the middle, and boom, everyone's forgotten about the glowy hole in the sky."

Unlikely, Bull thought. The commander was too cautious. Too restrained. He would watch them closely, but he wouldn't do anything unless he thought they were a danger. The Inquisition's troops were a match for most mages.

Judging by her frown, the Herald agreed. "Cullen wouldn't do that." She sighed with exasperation (even though the Bull listened for the slightest catch in her voice, there was none), "And stop calling him my templar!"

* * *

Dorian steepled his fingers and leaned forward, trying not to let on that he had seen Cullen's trap too late. Knight, cleric and castle all had his king in their sights. The commander had used a different strategy in every game they had played, but the outcome was always in his favour. He hated to admit it, but Cullen was quite the prodigy at chess. Which made it all the more interesting that he always seemed to lose to the Inquisitor, who in turn was soundly thrashed by Dorian.

Cullen was drumming his fingers impatiently. "Make your move, Master Pavus. I have a thousand things to do."

"Like play chess with Evelyn? I know that you're expecting her any moment now." He gave the commander his best sly wink.

He managed to keep a straight face, but could not stop his cheeks from colouring. "We play chess regularly when she is in Skyhold. What of it?"

"Oh, nothing. The two of you just seem to be spending a lot of time together, even though all I hear is incessant complaints about how busy you both are—"

Cullen's scowl had been deepening, but was abruptly replaced by that slightly wide-eyed look of love and awe that he reserved for Evelyn. "Stop it," he hissed, "she's here." Dorian could track her progress across the garden by Cullen's eyes.

"Gentlemen," she said by way of greeting, resting her hands on Dorian's shoulders affectionately.

"Cousin," he responded.

"My lady." The Bull was right, Cullen would never have made it as a Benn-Hassrath. It never was a meaningless honorific when he called Evelyn that. The man said like he wished it was true.

"You seem to be in the middle of things, perhaps I should come back later?"

Cullen spoke up hurriedly. "No—not at all. Stay, please. We won't be long."

Dorian felt sorry for him, even if he crushed him mercilessly at chess. "Do stay, Evie. I was just about to hand my king to Cullen and call it a day. There is only so much defeat one can stomach at a time."

He could tell from her face that she _knew_. She probably considered her commander's weekly annihilation of him and her subsequent dishonest victories over the lovestruck ex-templar some form of vicarious revenge on him for trouncing her so badly that she refused a rematch. He distinctly recalled her saying at the time that she had little patience for chess, and yet here she was, week after week, eating into his chess time. His cousin was such a little minx, and he adored her.

For the moment, he simply vacated his chair and sat her in it, Cullen throwing him a look of genuine gratitude. Words would be had with his cousin. If they would just admit that he was hers, they could give up pretending to play chess and let him monopolise Cullen's chess time. He would beat him one day.

* * *

_She gazed into his melting brown eyes, full of puppyish innocence. He must never know, she decided. She had given her heart to him, but they could never be together. She wished that it wasn't so, that she could run the tip of her tongue along the scar on his lip and ask him how he got it. She wanted to heal all his secret pain with the power of LOVE. _

_But alas, woe was her. She courted danger daily and he would be bereft if she died. He would lounge in his bed shirtless and unshaven, blonde curls tousled as he stared at the stars through the hole in his roof with vacant eyes._

Cassandra's eyes were moist when she closed the book. There were more than a few smudges where she had been struck by a particularly poignant image.

Light footsteps were coming up the stairs two at a time, and the Inquisitor swept into the room, clearly in one of her moments of nervous energy. "Varric said you had something for me?" When she saw the book, she snatched it from Cassandra's hands. "He gave you another manuscript? The Mage and Her Templar..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She flicked it open and skimmed quickly.

_"Oh, but I wish he would pin me down and ravish me," she sighed to her handsome dwarven friend. "Although we are at war with the forces of evil, whenever he comes to me to speak of strategy, all I can do is imagine him claiming me for his own. Be still my beating heart, here he comes!"_

"Varric and I need to have a chat," she said lightly, but Cassandra knew her well enough to hear the crack of thunder in her voice.

They found the author in his usual spot by the fire, quill in hand and cackling quietly as he wrote.

_"My life is yours, my lady," he said in his seductive voice. "Do with me as you will. I am wholly in your service." _

_"Care to show me your sword, Ser?" she purred. _

"I see you have been writing works of fiction that seem rather…inspired," Evelyn said ominously.

"Inquisitor," he rose to his feet with a pleasant smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. "I think I've rather outdone myself. Cassandra thinks it's the start of my best work. Every author needs a magnum opus, and I think this is it."

The Seeker grasped Evelyn's elbow. "You can't possibly tell him to stop! He ended the last book with the mage being falsely accused by the Seekers and thrown into prison!"

Her flinty gaze continued unabated. "I suppose that you're going to tell me that any resemblance to persons living or dead are purely coincidental?"

"Of course! I must interview you and Cullen before I write the final draft. It's the little details that make a book truly great, and I need to find out how exactly mages and templars feel about each other."

Her cheeks reddened and she attempted to compose herself. "There are plenty of mages and templars here that you can speak to. I have better things to do than to worry about such nonsense." She left without another word, face tight with annoyance.

"Well, that went better than I expected," Varric said half to himself.

"Indeed," Cassandra agreed. "If only they would-"

"It hit too close to home. Unfair to get close to someone when all it would take is a moment of carelessness to kill her. Unfair to ask him to care for her as more than a friend. She is a mage. She is the Inquisitor." They both turned to see Cole crouched on Varric's desk and rubbing a small piece of silk brocade. "If only he could take it all back. Mages are not people. Unworthy then, unworthy now. If he had met her then, he would have hated her. Thinking of it makes him sick."

Varric dug out an extra handkerchief made of lustrous cotton for Cole that he held up to the light and fluttered between his fingers, exclaiming about how shiny it was. "Leave it, kid. We shouldn't hear this. They're both smart, they'll work it out. They might need a little encouragement though, and I have just the plan."

Cassandra gasped. "Tell me! Or don't. Maybe it would be better for me to just read about it." She continued in a more sombre tone. "Nonetheless, do not meddle overmuch. She too dreams of being swept off her feet, but now may not be that time for either of them."

Varric winked conspiratorially. "Seeker, you know that love overcomes everything. I think it'll be the stuff of legends. And I will be the one to write it."

* * *

"If you refill that glass, Varric, I will be rolling on the floor and complaining about how sleepy I am in front of everyone. I know we're in the Herald's Rest, but I don't think it was meant quite that literally." She wagged her finger in warning.

Varric propped his feet on the table, ignoring the baleful glare that Cabot shot him. The Inquisitor had made the commander remove all weapons from behind the bar following an incident involving the two dwarves and throwing axes.

Cole appeared with a small pop. "She wants to try getting drunk. She's never done it before and she's curious. She hopes it'll help her sleep without visiting the Fade."

Evelyn didn't even blink as she pulled out a chair for Cole. "Cole, we've talked about appearing on tables."

"You didn't draw a sword, like Cassandra and Cullen. But you don't have a sword. You have a dagger strapped to your thigh and another in your boot but you don't want them there."

"Kid, you don't have to announce that to everyone." Varric filled Evelyn's glass, as well as a fresh one that he slid over to Cole. "So, never been drunk huh?"

She stared into her drink dolefully before taking a big gulp. "Nope. There's a few things on that list though."

"Like what?"

"Never been possessed, for one. I'd always been told that being drunk made one vulnerable to possession, but apparently that's utter rubbish." She took another long swig.

"It's warm when it goes down," Cole exclaimed happily.

Varric chuckled. "Dorian finally talked you around? Kid, drink your own drink, stop eavesdropping on the Inquisitor."

"Sort of. Where is he anyway? He said he wouldn't miss it for the world."

"My, my, but my ears are burning. I am the most handsome man in Skyhold, but that doesn't mean you have to talk about me all the time." He was coming up the stairs, and Varric noted how the Inquisitor's eyes widened ever so slightly when she saw Curly's blonde head behind Dorian. She rapidly composed herself again, while he grinned and topped her up. Whatever happened tonight, he was sure that he could work it into a story somewhere.

"Hello," Cullen said quietly, eyes never leaving the Inquisitor's face. Varric nodded at the chair next to the Inquisitor and he sat obediently.

Varric opened a fresh bottle and poured the commander a generous serve of the pale gold spirit. "Sun Blonde Vint-1 for you, Curly. The Inquisitor's had the better part of the Vint-9. Good for sentimental folks like her." He winked expansively and she blushed.

Dorian read out the bottle's label mockingly. "Delicate to the nose, comfort to the tongue, and, strangely, a half-remembered whisper to the ears. It is described as — and inspires — a wistful spirit. A vintner's opus." He shook his head in disgust and picked up the Vint-1 next. "Strong enough to fluster a Tranquil? Hah!" He poured himself a glass and sniffed at it with a sneer before swirling it over tongue and palate like a true connoisseur (which was ironic, given that he sometimes drank swill that made Varric choke).

Curly seemed content enough to stare at the Inquisitor longingly while she drained her second glass. Varric could see that her eyelids were starting to droop already, and she was even more quiet than usual. He and Dorian kept up the chatter as he refilled her glass again and she sipped from it slowly, savouring the rose wine. Curly drank as they talked, and by the time Varric and Dorian escaped with Cole, he was flushed and she was leaning against him, blinking slowly, face soft and unguarded.

Varric and Dorian shared a grin. They would figure it out.

* * *

"Is this what feeling drunk feels like?" she asked softly in a tone of complaint. He smiled and shifted so that he could put his arm around her, a frisson of joy and guilt thrilling through him as she leaned closer. Sera, the Bull and his Chargers had swept through the tavern earlier, clearing everyone out including Cabot before Varric and Dorian had left. They were so transparent, but for once, he didn't mind.

He murmured into her hair, "How do you feel?"

"Sleepy. Dizzy. I don't think I'll manage the part where I dance on the table."

"That's—ah, not necessary to the experience." She did seem to have missed the whole point of getting drunk, which was losing her inhibitions and letting her hair down, so to speak. Instead, she had skipped straight to being ready to be tucked into bed.

But then again, here they were together, and his own better judgment must be clouded because he couldn't, wouldn't walk away from this closeness.

She huffed with amusement and snuggled closer. "I'm sorry. I just-need a moment. Then I'll get out of your hair and take myself to bed."

"No. It's-" He cleared his throat. "-not a bother. If you need time..."

"Thank you," she whispered and his throat tightened, making him clear it again.

"It's fine." That was misleading. He didn't have the words for the feeling welling up in his chest. He could lose himself in this moment and forget everything outside the circle of his arms.

Maker forgive him, he was a sinner and a fool.

She drew away the same moment that he did, face unreadable again, all the softness gone from it. "I think I'd like to go to bed now."

She wobbled ever so slightly as she stood and he reached out to steady her, hands going back around her waist before he stood. She smiled an odd little smile at that. "Being drunk seems rather overrated."

"I don't disagree. I will walk you back to your quarters, my lady." He kept his arm around her, nodding at his men as they passed. There was not a single smirk in sight, but he knew rumours would be flying come morning. When they reached the main hall, he reached out to open the door to her quarters for her as she did the same.

"Sorry—"

"I beg your pardon—"

Heat curled through him as she looked up at him, so close that he just had to lean forward to capture her mouth with his. He just had to push the door open, carry her to the waiting bed, and make her his.

Instead he froze. Maker, she was beautiful, flushed cheeks in the flickering torchlight, lips slightly parted and a questioning, nervous look in her dark eyes. It seemed he had answered without knowing, for she smiled sadly and turned aside, opening the door. "Good night, commander. I'm sorry for being an inconvenience."

The door shut before he found his tongue, and he whispered to no one in particular, "Good night, Inquisitor."

* * *

Dorian threw his hands up in despair as soon as Cullen closed the door to the rotunda. "_Venhedis_! I could throttle the man. That smug bastard lectures me about ruthlessly exploiting openings in chess, and he didn't even kiss her!"

They had been watching from the balcony, and Dorian had flapped about in frustration as he fought to stay silent while Cullen trudged back to his tower like a man defeated. A steady stream of muttered Tevene profanities followed his initial outburst.

"He has hasn't got the nuts to kiss her, yeah?" Sera asked rhetorically. "She's too noble and girly to kiss him first."

The Bull leaned back in his chair and stretched, nearly punching Dorian in the head. "Admit it, Vint. You lost. Ten silvers for me, and was it twenty for the dwarf?"

"It's not what I was hoping for, but it does ease the sting." Varric held his hand out expectantly. Dorian glared at both of them in turn sourly before tossing coin pouches at them.

"Next week's drinks are on you both," he grumbled.

"There's gotta be an easier way to show Cully-Wully that she's in love with him." There was a rather worrying glint in Sera's eye. "She acts so buttoned up when it comes to him. Gotta show him that's not what it's actually like, yeah?"

* * *

He roused slowly that morning, groaning at the thought of facing her at the war table. In the cold light of day, everything that had happened last night seemed like wishful thinking. She didn't really turn to him for a brief moment of comfort. He simply happened to be there when she was feeling unwell.

He cracked an eye open and sat bolt upright, realising it was later than he had thought. And that there was a set of smallclothes sitting on his chest that was definitely for someone of a feminine persuasion.

If this was his men's idea of a joke, someone was going to be having a very bad day.

He gingerly picked it up by hooking a finger through, only to find matching stays underneath. Wonderful. There wasn't really anywhere that he could keep it in the meantime, and it wasn't as if anyone ever came to his bedroom, apart from the jester who had left him this little present. He dropped the underwear back onto the chest and dressed hurriedly; they would be gathering in the war room now. This could be dealt with after the morning's business had been concluded.

* * *

"I really don't think the view from the gate tower is going to be any better," Evelyn pointed out as Sera hustled her into Cullen's office. The last she had seen of the commander, he had lined up the troops and was glowering at each one in turn. Presumably someone had committed some transgression, or all of them collectively. Fortunately that meant she wouldn't have to answer questions about what they were doing on his bedroom roof eating cookies.

"Come on, it'll be great! It's nice and sunny there, won't be as bloody damp as the tavern roof. Plus I made proper Inquisition cookies this time." She handed Evelyn one and began to climb the ladder, giggle-snorting all the way.

The cookie was much better than Sera's previous efforts. Evelyn dusted the crumbs off on her breeches before following Sera. "I hope you brought more! That was delicious," she called up, but there was no response. There was no sign of Sera in Cullen's room, and Evelyn didn't see how she could have gotten onto the roof. She didn't want to trust her weight to it either; not with that big hole in it that Cullen wouldn't allow anyone to fix.

As she scanned the room, her eyes lit on a familiar pile of cloth on Cullen's chest. It looked suspiciously like the smalls that had gone missing from her wardrobe that morning.

"Sera," she sang out. "Where are you?" No giggle-snorts in hearing range. She must have rappelled down the side of the tower.

The door downstairs burst open and Cullen stomped in. It was all flawlessly timed. The terror didn't start until he started scaling the ladder. He came into view and their eyes met across the room, and in that single horrible instant, she thought of Vivienne's catching her beloved Bastien's eye, even while she wished that she had Cole's ability to make him forget this had ever happened.

He had not moved from his position on the ladder. He cleared his throat nervously and stammered, "I-Inquisitor." His eyes darted between her and her smallclothes. What was he thinking? Did it seem like she was here leaving her smallclothes for him?

"I can explain—"

"This isn't what it looks like—"

They both spoke at once, and then he pulled himself up onto the ledge with a grunt, red to the roots of his hair. "Inquisitor, I swear that someone is jesting at my expense. When I find out who left these here—"

"It was Sera, I'm sure of it. She must have stolen these from my room last night."

"These are _yours_?" She had not thought he could blush any more deeply, and she was wrong. "Maker's breath, when I get my hands on Sera… I didn't want you to think. Um. That these belonged to someone. That I had. Ah…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Forgive me."

"You did nothing wrong, it's Sera who should be apologising." She felt a little dizzy as the implications of his reaction sank in. To reassure her that he had not—

She picked up her smallclothes and balled them into the pocket of her jacket. "I'll speak to you later, Cullen. I need to find Sera before she flees Skyhold completely. Which she will, if she's smart." Evelyn felt no need to mention that she was the one fleeing because she needed to clear her head. They left for the Western Approach again in two days…

* * *

It was late afternoon when the Inquisitor found him in his office. She waited until he dismissed the messengers, but when yet another two knocked before she could say anything, she huffed impatiently. "I thought we could talk. Alone?"

He swallowed hard. "Alone? I mean, of course."


	11. Three Days: A Prologue

Wow I am being super disciplined with tidying up all these half written things. Thanks for the faves and follows, and special thanks to AgapeErosPhilia and melian evenstar for the reviews :D

* * *

_The first day_

* * *

The Conclave was due to start at dawn, but it was perhaps two hours after midnight that he rose from fitful dreams and pulled on his armour. As he headed down towards the smithy, he noted that much of the village was still dark and most of the fires in the camp outside had burned down to embers. He took his time working the edge of his sword; he had little enough to occupy himself until he was needed. There was the odd shout from the tavern, but apart from that the only sounds were the whetstone and the wind. Snow drifted gently, burying the paths to the temple. It would be a long, cold walk.

He roused from his reverie when the singing started. The Revered Mothers and the sisters were praying for the Conclave's success, and it was time for him to prepare for its failure.

* * *

She almost lost her footing for the third time in half a mile; Maker's balls, but she hated ice and mud. She wrapped her jacket more tightly around her as the wind picked up, pulling her scarf up around her ears. Theoretically she shouldn't be frostbitten this quickly, but her ears were burning. A soldier nodded politely at her and she awkwardly avoided eye contact for the long minute it took to actually pass him after she had offered a tight-lipped smile of acknowledgment. She felt like a race horse champing at the bit as she shuffled along behind every elderly arthritic mage in Thedas, simultaneously impatient and ashamed of how unkind she could be.

She was surprised by how many Chantry soldiers there were; replacements for the templars, perhaps? Would they be able to dampen magic? Not that it mattered. She had never tested herself against a templar and had no desire to. If it came to open fighting…but that's why they were so conspicuously present.

It wasn't just the cold that made her shiver.

* * *

He found Cassandra and Leliana just outside the Chantry. Leliana was absently stroking one of her ravens, which fluffed its feathers and squawked at Cullen, turning to watch him with a beady red eye. Cassandra was grinding her teeth when she was not pacing.

"The troops are in position?"

"Yes. My scouts have reported that all is calm for the moment."

"If anything should happen at the Conclave, we should expect trouble here too. We should have closed the tavern last night."

Leliana shrugged. "The ones who drink enough won't be an issue. I may also have ensured that the ale was sufficiently...relaxing."

"We still don't have the numbers to control potential situations both at the Conclave and in Haven." Cassandra turned on her heel again, churning a furrow in front of the tent. "We should be with her, Leliana. What if—"

"We've done what we can. All we can do now is trust in the Most Holy and pray."

* * *

Her uncle nodded at her as she climbed the stairs to where the mages were seated. He had had words with the Ostwick Knight-Commander who had succeeded him years ago, and apparently he still wielded enough influence over the man to receive an invite to the Conclave. She had a feeling that her uncle's sudden return to Ostwick from the White Spire had been controversial, but he sat with his templar brethren with no apparent concern.

The Second Enchanter prodded her in the back when she passed the central seats but Evelyn kept moving; Carla had been very pointed in her directions that they should seek to be heard by the Divine and that they should pick their seats accordingly. Ostwick was an example! Behold how they had stood against the chaos. The First Enchanter had taken Evelyn aside afterwards to gently remind her that no one really gave two shits about Ostwick. Most people in Ferelden and Orlais did not even know that Ostwick existed. The number of people who had asked her politely, "Ah, where is that?", was proof of that.

The First Enchanter had been clear: keep your heads down, and come home safe. She could live with that.

Silence rippled outwards as the Divine entered through the main doors. Evelyn marvelled at the Most Holy Headdress, which was also the Most Shiny and the Most Vertically Advantaged. The Divine carried herself with grace and poise, straight-backed despite her age and remarkable hat.

Every eye was on the Divine (the power of hats!). She raised her hands in that generic gesture of inclusion. "Brothers, sisters. I welcome you to the Conclave."

Someone jeered, "No templar is a brother of mine!"

Evelyn slowly slid downwards in her seat as the shouting began. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

She was a little impressed by how long people could keep saying the same things over and over without realising or caring that no one was listening.

And in amongst the clamour, she could hear something—

A booming voice echoed through the temple. "Now is our moment. Seize her."

The world exploded into light and sound and Evelyn blocked it out kept it away fights the green light with her own the sound of tearing and she is falling

* * *

The short winter dusk was at its end and there was still no signs of trouble. He felt weary even though he had done nothing all day but wait, counting the chimes of the Chantry bell as it tolled the hour. The tavern was as busy as ever; anyone who was not important enough to be at the Conclave was having their dinner there. He left well before it filled up; the hollow laughter made the underlying tension even worse. Instead, he wandered down towards the training yards, wondering if he would find the Seeker taking her frustration out on a dummy.

He felt the magical energies surge past, making his hair stand on end just an instant before the explosion shook the town. Before he opened his eyes to the settling ash and snow, he was back in Kirkwall, listening to the wailing as people trickled towards the ruin of the Chantry. There would be more charred corpses for them to recover and bury without ever knowing who they were laying to rest. He looked up at the green breach in the sky with a sick knot in his stomach, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword (when had he drawn it?). He did not need lyrium-enhanced senses to feel the sheer amount of magic pouring through into this world. That could mean but one thing; the Veil was torn and demons were coming. There were too many mages here. He headed to the Chantry, fighting his rising dread. They would need answers, and he would need templars before hell broke loose again. He would not make the same mistakes that he had in Kirkwall.

* * *

The first squad had made it to the temple with only the occasional demon encounter, but Cullen had ordered them to investigate the area and establish a camp nearby before returning. He was fairly certain that took more than five hours, but here they were.

"You're telling me that a woman fell out of a rift." Cullen had previously believed that Benson was a stolid, reliable man. But then again, he had also agreed with Meredith about mages. So much for age bringing wisdom.

"Yes, sir." The sergeant was a burly man, but he seemed to shrink a little as Leliana, Cassandra and Cullen glared at him. "There was also another woman behind her, but the rift closed before she could get out."

"Where is she now?" Cassandra demanded. "She must be tied to what happened at the Conclave."

"I will take you to her, Lady Seeker. Er. There also seems to be something on her hand. Some sort of green light comes out every so often."

* * *

The soldiers had taken her to the town apothecary, a gruff man who peeled back her eyelids and took her pulse rather ungently. "She's not long for this world, much like the rest of us."

Cassandra ordered her clapped in irons immediately, which seemed excessive given that she hadn't even flinched when her eyelids were being pinched. Clad in a plain wool jacket, breeches and boots; neither Chantry sister nor templar then, so either a lay sister, mage (unlikely, most of those who attended had been wearing their finest robes) or a spy. Whenever the Breach outside thundered, sickly green light flared between her fingers.

"We must speak to her." Leliana folded her arms when the apothecary's bushy eyebrows knit.

"I'm no healer. I'll do what I can, but don't get your hopes up." Not many people could meet Leliana's dagger gaze for long. Cullen was suitably impressed. "Get out of my hair. I have work to do if the girl is to live."

Cullen had to stifle a laugh at that, but did not comment. He could have meant his beard.

Rumours of the sole survivor of the Conclave spread through Haven like wildfire, and the crowd gathered outside seemed like a mix of the curious and the angry. An angry murmur went through the crowd as the soldiers carried the survivor out in chains, heading towards the Chantry's cells.

An enchanter lurked hopefully, quickly approaching them when the crowd around them thinned, following the soldiers. He looked like he would bolt if they made any sudden movements, and most of the whites of his eyes were showing. "Lady Seeker—is it true that woman came out of a rift?" At her curt nod, he continued. "That mark on her hand. It's thrumming with magic that feels like nothing I have ever encountered. And it's powerful."

"Study it then. Tell me everything you discover."

His eyes widened further. "I—I don't know that I will be much use. But if you will it, I shall try."

* * *

_The second day_

* * *

The elf leaned on his staff, face calm and impassive despite the hostility in the air. Cullen recognised him from the tavern; he had been sitting alone, silently eating his dinner. The townsfolk had given him a wide berth. Associating with apostates was not something anyone wanted to be accused of at a time like this.

"You claim to know of the Breach?"

"From this distance, no more than any mage could tell you. But I wish to study it, and any rifts that appear, for we must find a way to close them. I have seen much of the Fade in my travels, and I know more of it than any Circle mage. This Breach threatens all, and I would help close it if you would have me."

They took Solas to her after he examined the rift outside the forward camp. He rolled her sleeve up; Cullen was shocked to see cracks of green light under her skin, growing up her arm past her elbow. "She will die when it reaches her heart," the elf had said in a dispassionate voice, and Cullen believed him. "The mark and the rifts seem to be connected; we must keep her alive. Allow me some time to stabilise her mark, and then I will go to the nearest rift and try to close it by any means I can. After all, she may still die and even this lead will be lost."

Before Solas had appeared, he had not been convinced either way of the prisoner's guilt. Now it was becoming all too convenient; a mark that no other mage could recognise, that was linked with the rifts, followed by an elven apostate who seemed to think he could exert some control over it.

As the three of them walked out, they exchanged glances. "He will be watched," Leliana said softly.

He didn't have the time to worry about it; the forward camp was under constant assault. The ragtag band of remaining templars, mages, assorted military escorts and their own few soldiers were all dying in the valley. They needed to regroup before the demons picked them off one by one. He set men to digging the trenches, reinforcing the perimeter. He tried to ignore the thunder from the breach in the sky, concentrating on his map of the valley while yet more demons fell to the ground mere miles from them. How did one plan camps, routes, supply lines when it was raining demons? How did he fortify positions when they kept falling behind the lines? His scouts were rounding up the remaining people in the valley and bringing them back to the camp, but too many of them did not return. There was too much ground to cover. They would miss large swathes of it, or none would return at all.

He pointedly ignored Chancellor Roderick for the better part of an hour before he left, the words "Val Royeaux" and "execution" dimly registering. His hand would not tremble in front of the Chancellor, nor would his step falter even if it cost him every last ounce of strength. Fortunately the Chancellor was too caught up in his complaining to notice him fighting back waves of nausea.

He went to the Chantry late that night, too wound up and too scared to sleep. He rarely left the Fereldan Circle in the Fade, but last night had done so only to find himself back at the forward camp, Uldred awash in green light that pierced his skin and made him scream and scream...

But enough of that. He would take a moment to recover, and then he would return to the list of their forces thus far. They would be awaiting further instructions come the dawn.

The sole light in the Chantry was the ever burning fire before the altar and a few candles in alcoves which did little but deepen the shadows in the corners. He sat down in one of the dark corners; the light was making his headache worse.

In the candlelit silence, the creak of the door was uncomfortably loud. He guessed two pairs of boots, slapping the floor sometimes toes first, sometimes heels first, in the uncoordinated way of a heavy-footed man trying to move silently. He held his peace; they were up to something.

They made their way to the dungeon, and he followed as quietly as he could, trying not to get too close lest they hear him. Their own footsteps and nervous breathing seemed to cover him well enough.

The gate to the prisoner's cell creaked open: he had ordered it left unlocked, as she had been chained to the wall and both the apothecary and apostate wished to come and go. The apothecary swore as he startled awake. He had been snoring at the prisoner's bedside, quill in hand as he scribbled his observations and her delirious mutterings. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Out of the way, Adan. We're here for the murderer."

As they reached for their daggers, he drew his sword. "I might say the same of you."

"Knight-C-captain..."

"That is no longer my title." Cullen smiled unpleasantly at the two men. They had scarves wrapped around their faces but he could see the fear in their eyes well enough. "How strange that two upstanding men of Haven are here at this hour, knives in hand. It's almost as if they were planning something."

"T-they say t-that she killed the Divine, ser."

"Thom? Bert? What do you two think you're playing at? The Lady Seeker ordered me to keep this girl alive, and you want to slit both our throats?"

The prisoner thrashed in her chains, mumbling before becoming still again. He did not break eye contact with the men.

"W-we..."

"I would put those daggers away, if I were you." They did so and he sheathed his sword, although he kept his hand on his pommel. "Now, why don't you tell me who is it that says that the survivor is responsible for the explosion?"

"Chancellor Roderick, ser."

Maker preserve him, he would belt the wretch the next time he saw him. The Maker may see fit to try his patience in such a way, but the Chancellor was playing dangerous games and his job was difficult enough without such complications.

"Shut up! It wasn't him, we just assumed..."

"Assumptions are dangerous, my friends. Why don't you return to your homes and get some rest. Report to me in the morning. We could use men with your...enthusiasm."

They bolted up the stairs almost before he had finished speaking. Adan looked at him expectantly. He sighed. "I will stay here until the morning. We will post a guard here with you, two if we can spare the men."

The girl's next breath was almost a sob. It seemed the Fade was no kinder to her than it was to him; her face was wet with tears. Something stirred in him, whether it was pity or kinship, and he almost reached out to dry her face. Adan held her lower lip back with his thumb and trickled a few drops of elfroot juice between her teeth. She frowned at the taste; he was making progress indeed.

* * *

_The third day_

* * *

Everything hurt, especially her left hand. Someone kept shouting, whoareyou whoareyou. A calmer voice mumbled as coolness spread through her left hand, pushing back the pain. She tried to answer, my name is Evelyn. Evelyn Trevelyan. Metal clinked, and she remained in darkness.

* * *

They were fighting a losing battle.

The elf had spent the better part of yesterday throwing spells at a rift, and several men were injured helping him fight off the demons that emerged. Whatever he did made no difference one way or another. He had eventually given up, looking more than a little fatigued and returned to the prisoner for a time. He entertained hopes that she would rouse by today.

Cullen hoped the elf was right about the prisoner's mark, whether or not she was guilty. Any soldier would have vehemently agreed to withdrawing in the face of an infinite enemy (with the possible exception of the Grey Wardens), but what happened here would be what would happen across Thedas; either they found a way to close the rifts and the Breach, or they died. In the latter case, better get in early to avoid the rush.

* * *

"Evelyn Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle, was indeed in attendance. That is assuming she is telling the truth, of course. I'm sure that we could find someone to help us confirm that. I have no other information on her."

"Ostwick? I met a young templar from there yesterday."

"Bring him to her quickly then. She is waking, and we need to know who she is and where her allegiances lie."

* * *

Pain explodes in her left hand again. Her fingers won't listen to her, won't help her press the pain out. Something hard and heavy cuts into her wrists. She fights it, but she still drifts under again.

* * *

She was confirmed to be Lady Evelyn Trevelyan by the young templar who had been part of the escort from Ostwick Circle. The boy had blushed at the sight of the unconscious woman. The cantankerous healer scowled at him and he had fled within seconds of his stammered answer.

Cullen had followed the boy after both Cassandra and Leliana had given him meaningful glances. He found him strapping on his freshly polished armour at the blacksmith.

"Knight-Captain!" He dropped his breastplate with a clatter as he jumped to his feet.

"I am no longer part of the templars. At ease, soldier. What is your name?"

"Jorne, sir." He was almost vibrating with nerves. The boy was perhaps twenty years of age, bright-eyed and decidedly bushy-tailed. Just looking at him made Cullen feel old.

"Relax, Jorne. I just want you to tell me what you know about Lady Trevelyan."

"Her father is a noble in Ostwick; and most of the templars don't like them much. Her father takes her out of the Circle weekly to attend noble parties and such like. They think it's too much freedom for a mage. Some other families followed suit, and it gets a bit messy at times. Ser."

"What do you mean by 'messy'?"

"Well, just hard to keep track of them, ser. A lot of the older templars don't like them being out of the tower. And there's talk that her father forced his brother, the former Knight-Commander to leave Ostwick. And the new Knight-Commander is...a hard man. He doesn't like what's going on with all of that but there's pressure from the Chantry to let it be. One of the Revered Mothers is a Trevelyan as well, see. Nothing bad has happened that I know of, but the older templars are just angry, ser." He flushed again. "But she's nice. She doesn't let anyone hurt the Tranquil, mage or templar. She's noble but she hasn't got airs."

"I see." The boy was clearly infatuated with her. As a junior templar, he probably spent all day on guard duty, and watching a pretty face was a way to pass the time.

"I don't know about her throwing fire or what, ser, but in Ostwick, she was a healer. One of the mages once told me that she was the youngest Ostwick mage to pass the Harrowing."

He supposed that he should be grateful that young Jorne was in love with her; he was a wealth of (admittedly biased) information. "Thank you for your help, Jorne. Please let me know if you think there is anything else that we should know about her."

* * *

Roderick had not been far behind the runner, who reported that the prisoner had succeeded in sealing two rifts, the first such success. They were to assault the temple to provide a distraction by Leliana's suggestion. Additionally, the apostate and prisoner both felt that many of the demons would be drawn to her, and they would be better able to deal with greater numbers in the narrow pass. When the runner said that the prisoner requested that the soldiers were careful, he could have laughed.

Meanwhile, Roderick had heckled him, spittle flying as he squawked about how Leliana and Cassandra had let her decide their course of action. "I demand that you arrest and bring her to Val Royeaux to be executed!"

He ignored the Chantry brother until he was ready to explode. "You are in no position to make such demands. I do not answer to you, and we have bigger problems, or have you not noticed the demons?"

"That's what the prisoner said too, fools the lot of you. We are going to lose more people, and all for naught! This will be on your heads!"

Cullen unkindly thought that the more Roderick howled, the more he liked the prisoner. The man was a pest, and he suspected that they were right about the demons converging on her. If she wished to take the thick of the fighting head on, she was welcome to it. The squad that had tried to reach the temple using that path had not returned.

But he was nothing if not dutiful, and so they advanced cautiously. The fighting was lighter than he expected, and only a few were lost in the approach. When he had ensured that their path back to the forward camp and Haven were secure, he finally entered the temple, trying not to retch at the smell of burnt flesh. When had all this red lyrium appeared? The crystals reflected his face and it _sang_ to him. Why endure? Why suffer needlessly? How sweet will that first draught be? Power surging through your veins. You loved it. You loved being strong, able to protect yourself from mages...

He heard the pride demon before he saw it, felt the rumble of its laughter in his chest. He broke into a run, close enough by now to hear the shouting. The men were all firing blindly at it, and he yelled at them to stop, focus on the smaller demons and wraiths. Make sure that the people below didn't get flanked.

He saw it happen too late to shout a warning. A gnarled claw hooked around Leliana's foot and whisked her off her feet as the demon's gangly form unfolded from the ground under her. The claws came down only to clash against a barrier, striking sparks. The demon burst into flame, shrieking as it released Leliana, the barrier closing in around her to protect her from the fire. She grabbed her bow and scrambled away, forgotten by the panicked demon. He followed Leliana's gaze and saw the prisoner awake for the first time, face set with concentration, hand glowing with the same eerie light of the Breach.

He continued choosing targets for his archers, making sure that the few templars with him kept their flanks clear before he finally allowed them to focus on the towering demon. When it fell to its knees, the prisoner was there again, hands alight as ice crept along its hide. He held his archers back, arrows nocked, until at the prisoner's nod, Cassandra smashed her shield into it at the same instant that twenty arrows did, shattering it to smithereens.

The rift lay before her, a small vertical tear in the Veil leading from it to the large Breach above. They all were silent, watching Cassandra shout at her to seal it. She was breathing heavily, ill-fitting shoulder plate sliding down her shoulder as she lifted her left hand. The red lyrium's song turned to a scream.

It was all he could do to stay upright as pain lanced through him, but he watched the rift slam shut and a bright light shoot up towards the Breach, sealing the tear as it went. She fell to her knees as the world went white and a shock wave knocked him backwards. The lyrium's song went silent.

He scrambled to his feet and vaulted down to where Cassandra crouched by the prone figure. She was ominously still, and Cassandra had a finger on her throat. There was a tiny flutter of breath as he approached and Cassandra nodded, relief clear on her face. "She lives."

He sent a soldier to get the healers before kneeling by her and gently turning her onto her side. She seemed physically unscathed, but deeply unconscious nonetheless. She was breathing, and there was nothing more he could do for her. He left Cassandra with her and turned his attention to accounting for his men, then to planning the journey back to Haven with the wounded.

* * *

She was pleasantly surprised to wake up in a bed this time, shivering despite the heavy covers over her and the roaring fire. Praise the Maker or whoever else was listening, she was still wearing her clothes. These episodes were starting to unnerve her; she had never so much as fainted before this. Her hand still throbbed, but it was nothing like the pain that had arced through her body before.

There was a pitcher of fresh water on the table, and she found a towel in a cupboard that she dampened and used to wipe her face—surprisingly clean, perhaps someone had already attended to that while she had been unconscious. The thought made her deeply uncomfortable.

The door opened and a woman gasped, dropping something with a crash.


	12. Real

_Hello, I am still alive but in the hell of Pillars of Eternity and Eder with his love of all things fluffy. Is anyone the slightest bit interested in Pillars of Eternity fanfic?_

* * *

He knows it's real when the first letter from her after they move to Skyhold is a playful complaint (To the commander of the Inquisition, this one must express great dissatisfaction with the digestive tracts of your equine agents...), accompanied by a childlike sketch and a conclusion that she didn't _really_ want to walk all that way.

He knows it when Jim comes along, waving that report just as he was about kiss her and she tells him that he should go, but instead he stays.

He knows it when the only person he looks for in the crowd at the Winter Palace is her, austere in black silk, a singular silhouette among the big hoop skirts and lace and masks. She leaves her face uncovered; so does he. Every time their eyes meet across the hall, he knows that he cannot hide what he feels despite Leliana's coaching.

He knows it when he cannot find the words to describe her lips on his, his hands on her. When all he can say is that he loves her and she teasingly reminds him that she was the first one to say it before laughing. He repeats it a thousand times over (to make up for that, see?) and she replies in kind.

He knows it when he wakes and all he can see is the mass of her dark hair, peeping out from under an enormous stack of blankets (no wonder he always woke early, feeling rather too warm). The fear always clenches his gut, for that was her after Haven, being warmed under blankets and furs while he watched until he could bear it no more.

He knows it when she rolls over and kicks him in her sleep, usually rousing enough to mutter a slurred apology before her breathing settles again.

He knows it when he prays for her, again and again when she goes missing, when all he is a man in love, with no power to know whether she is alive or dead.

He says it to her one night when she is secure within the circle of his arms, his face buried in her hair. "It's real because your hair gets everywhere."

She obligingly swept it aside as best she can. "Of course, putting your face elsewhere would help. And what do you mean it's real?"

"Since the Fereldan Circle. The desire demons did...things to me there. I haven't been close to anyone since. I didn't want anyone in my life. How could I tell if it was real or just a demon's trap?"

She rolled over and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. "Here's a tip. The demons haven't worked out the necessity of toilets yet. Case in point: Cole."

He laughed as he pressed his lips to her head. "Well, in that case, I've definitely seen enough to know that you're real."

She propped herself up on his chest. "In all seriousness, you've been through a lot. Thank you for letting me be in your life." She laid a cool hand-the one without the Anchor-on his cheek. "It can't be easy."

"I've never wanted anything more," he whispered.

Her fingers trailed towards the scar on his lip, dark eyes sad. "Cullen, if I don't survive this-"

"Don't. I've said before, I can't. I just-"

She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, soft and sweet. "You will live and love again. You will find happiness."

"Evie-"

"All I want, above all else, is for you to be happy. Always remember that."

He loses himself in her then, in the truth of them.


End file.
